Sensitivity

I am reading The Secret Life of Bees for book club, and I love it! I know it's old, but in our last meeting we discussed which books made us wish we could spend more time with the characters, and one of the members mentioned this one. I can see why. I love all of the characters, too. Well, maybe not June so much. She's a little too guarded for me. Although I wish I could be more like August, the matriarch of the sisters, I am actually more like May--the fragile one who feels other people's pain too deeply. Not as deeply as she did, thank goodness. But more so than I would like sometimes.

On the one hand, I recognize that it is a gift to have such a keen sense of empathy. I know I have helped a lot of people because of it. But I am also easily thrown off balance when the people I care about are in pain--especially since I am also prone to depression and anxiety. I have always assumed this meant that I was weak. Fragile. Too sensitive.

I spent time with my brother this weekend--the only one of the four siblings who does not have a mood disorder. In talking to him, it was clear that he does not experience his feelings as intensely as I do. He does not get his feelings hurt very often. He is better able to maintain distance from family drama, and his advice really is to tell them to suck it up.

I envy him for this, but I cannot be him. I can only be me. I feel things intensely. My feelings get hurt easily. And when someone is in pain, I feel what they feel and try to help them, even if it hurts me.

But rather than berate myself for it, I am learning to accept that this is who I am. We all have different vulnerabilities. Some people may be prone to heart disease. Other people have diabetes. I am a hyperempath with depression and anxiety. Therefore, I have to be sure to take care of myself in certain ways: make alone time a priority, set boundaries, and be more selective about who I spend time with.

I used to joke that I'm not trying to save the world--just the people that I meet. But perhaps I will have to narrow down my scope in my life-saving efforts, too.

Positively Selfish

One of the hazards of working in the helping professions is burnout. People who are drawn to helping others run the risk of giving too much of themselves. In my case, however, I run the risk of burnout in my personal relationships more so than I do at work.

There are a lot of advantages to working in a counseling center. Even though you don't make as much money, you have access to a lot of resources that you don't have in private practice. I have colleagues, the student health center, deans, RA's, and peer counselors who share the load. The most stressful periods of my job are predictable and time-limited: they occur around the middle of the semester and end around finals week. There are boundaries that are built into our schedule, as well. Appointments are 50 minutes long at the most. We don't schedule clients past 5 pm or on the weekends. Students go home for breaks. We don't see students after they graduate.

My personal life is a different story. Many of the people I love have emotional needs that they expect me to fulfill. Appointments are not time-limited. I am on call 24-7. I usually cannot terminate these relationships, nor do I want to. I have a hard time saying no to whatever they ask of me. And in many cases, I do not feel I am getting back as much as I am putting into the relationship because their emotional resources are more limited than my own. Which is not their fault. It's just unfortunate for me.

That is part of the reason why I want a hiatus from loving and caring for anyone or anything new. No dating. No pets. Just me and my plants. I'm burned out; I want a more solitary job in my personal life.

I was telling my therapist the other day how this makes me feel selfish. She told me that I'm being honest with myself--more authentic. That we need another word that conveys positive selfishness. Which is kind of sad, really. What does it say about our culture that there would be no word for a healthy focus on oneself?

She nominated the word selful. Full of oneself, but in a good way. More like being whole. But it doesn't roll off the tongue the way selfish and selfless do. Plus it looks weird. So I am open to suggestions.

Beginnings and Endings, Part 2

My job follows the academic calendar, so today is my first day back at work. I was never one of those kids who looked forward to the beginning of school. I didn't care about seeing my friends; I didn't want to have to do homework. I didn't want to have to go to bed and wake up early. I pretty much have the same mentality now that I did when I was in elementary school. Some things never change, I guess.

My summers follow a distinct pattern: I have a hard time transitioning from being stressed and having to be super-productive to not having a whole lot that needs to get done. Boredom doesn't do justice to the intensity of how badly I feel during that adjustment period. It's more like, my existence is a complete waste of time. I have nothing of value to offer to the world. I know it's is my inner critic talking, but it still makes me question my worth. I think that's why most people would rather be stressed than bored: it makes you feel more useful.

However, by the time I have about 2 weeks of vacation left, I start panicking about having to go back to work. I don't want to feel stressed out again--to be on call, have back-to-back clients, rush to get my nightly routine completed. By the end of the summer, I feel like I could quit my job altogether. But I have no one to support me, so that's not an option.

This summer I had the added adjustment of being alone for the first time. Braking down on the side of the freeway alone. Attending weddings alone. Spending holidays and weekends alone. At least when I was working, I was guaranteed to see people every day. Over the summer, I had to make plans to motivate myself to leave the house, and sometimes I couldn't do it.

Plus, I was also going through the steps to finalize my divorce, so I no longer had the illusion that I could return to the more stable state of matrimony. I didn't date anyone or even have someone I could fantasize about dating. Well, I guess there's Federer, but even in his case, the most I could imagine was being one of the nannies for his new twin boys. Not terribly romantic.

Despite the struggles with boredom, reversed sleep cycles, and solitude, I think the highs and lows actually helped me tolerate my emotions better. I would remind myself that boredom and loneliness are painful sometimes, but I'll be busy eventually. (Usually the next day, because I played in 7 tennis leagues and captained 5 of them over the summer.) And when school starts and I'm feeling overwhelmed, I'll remind myself that I have a long break to look forward to at the end of the term.

I think it also helped that I spent the past 2 weeks on vacation with family and friends. It was the highlight of the summer, but it was also hard to be around people 24-7. Now that I am accustomed to extended periods of solitude, I realize how much I need down time to feel sane. So by the time my vacation ended on Friday, I was ready to go home. Ready to catch up on tennis, blogging, and even work.

This summer was a good reminder of how, even when something seems intolerable, that feeling will pass. And you might even find value in the experience that you hated so much at that time.

Good Fortune

Money can't buy happiness. Beauty is only skin deep. Age is just a number. It may be an illusion that wealth, beauty, and youth bring happiness, but I have to admit, sometimes it's still a convincing one.

Earlier this summer, when I was stranded in South Carolina waiting for my car to be fixed, I had the good fortune of staying with a friend from graduate school and her family. At the time, I had been on this kick about destiny, so her daughter recommended that I read Holes, by Louis Sachar. It's about a boy who is sentenced to work at a camp for delinquent boys for a crime he didn't commit. Although it didn't seem like it at the time, he was exactly where he was supposed to be. I was working hard to stay positive about my situation, so I wondered if my reading "Holes" was meant to be, as well.

I asked my young friend what else I should read, and she recommended Where the Mountain Meets the Moon, by Grace Lin. It's about a Chinese girl named Minli who goes on a long journey to try to change her family's fortune. In the end, she learns that family is the greatest fortune of all.

Every year my college friend and I have an Inner Child Reunion. During our first reunion a few years ago, I introduced her to Sophie and she realized that she had a part of herself that was not allowed to play. So we make it a priority to get together for a few days over the summer for an extended play date. This year we could not find a mutual time to meet, so she decided to bring her son and meet me at my brother's house because I had to babysit my niece. So it was a double reunion since she, my brother, and I all went to UVA.

As usual, my friend and I lamented over the very adult burdens of money, weight gain, and aging, but without the same level of obsessiveness as before. Perhaps it was because spending several days with 4 adults and 2 actual children, in addition to our inner children, left us with less energy for lamentations. Or perhaps it was because being together helped us to be more grateful for what we have.

I'm not gonna lie. We did not become enlightened beings over the past few days. We would still like to make a little more money, lose a little weight, and slow down the aging process. But we were also reminded that we are blessed to have family and friends who enjoy singing and recording "Let It Go" for hours on end, several days in a row. How many other people can say that? (I would post one of the videos but it's kind of embarrassing.)

Perhaps it is no coincidence that I finished "Where the Mountain Meets the Moon" last night, at the conclusion of our Inner Child/College Reunion. Grace Lin was right: gratitude brings good fortune.

Honesty and Trust, Part 2

"You should know; you're a psychologist."

Sometimes I don't know. Sometimes I, too, am puzzled as to why people do the things they do.

I've been trying to make sense of why, despite my commitment to honesty, I remained in relationships with people who consistently lied to me. And I didn't even like them very much. I have this tendency to try to make relationships work at all costs, even when I don't like the person. Even when they do things that are inconsistent with my values, like lying. It's maddening.

One of my exes told me up front that he was a liar. Still, my first instinct was to believe him. It's too much work not to trust people, I think. But sometimes it was more costly to make myself believe that he was being honest. It's hard not to beat myself up for trusting a self-proclaimed liar. Why would anyone do such a crazy thing?

My best guess is that I stayed with these guys because I wanted to believe in the version of themselves that they were selling. It's who they wanted to be, and who I wanted them to be. I wanted to help them get there, even. You can do it! I have faith in you!

Plus, I knew they were lying because they were ashamed of who they really were. I was trying to do the whole unconditional positive regard thing that therapists do. Because that is the most healing gift that we can give to others. It works well in therapy, but not so much in romantic relationships. I realize now that there is a limit to how much you can allow someone to hurt you in order to prove to them that they are lovable.

I understand what it's like to fear that people won't love you or respect you if they knew what you're really like. That is the purpose of this blog, after all. To challenge myself to show the world what I'm really like. And while I haven't outright lied about who I am, I haven't always shared the things that I'm ashamed of. Not even to my family--the people who do love me unconditionally.

So I guess we can all challenge ourselves to be more honest. Some people have further to go than others, but as long as we're making the effort, that's what counts, isn't it?  Anyway, it makes me feel better about myself to frame my tolerance of dishonesty in this way, so that's what I'm going with.

But I'm still going to be more selective about who I choose to be with from now on.

Blessings in Disguise

Remember how my car broke down on the way to my friend's wedding? Well, it turned out to be more of an inconvenience than an extra day and $1000. Try 2 extra days and $3000.

I tried my best to have a good attitude about it. I made a list of the things I was thankful for. I tried to put a positive spin on everything. It helped some, but it was still annoying.

You know what helped the most? I looked at the service ticket when I got home and it turned out that my rear brakes were 95% worn. I kind of thought they were unresponsive, but I didn't think it was that bad. I'm actually thankful that my car broke down. I was speeding because I was late for the rehearsal dinner, and if I had to break suddenly, things could have been much worse. Maybe breaking down wasn't a punishment for having a bad attitude after all. Maybe God was looking out for me.

I often tell clients that the events that they think are terrible at the time may turn out to be blessings in disguise. This is also supported by research on happiness. I mentioned in a previous post how people who become paraplegics from car accidents return to their baseline level of happiness after about a year. Sometimes they are even thankful for the accident, because it moved their lives in a more positive direction.

I guess if you're really cynical, you could argue that they're just rationalizing to make themselves feel better. I don't think this is true, but even if it were, so what? Our beliefs are more compelling than reality, anyway. I'd love to be irrationally grateful.

This holiday weekend has been tough for me. Holidays are the hardest because they are supposed to be filled with family, friends, and food. And in this case, fireworks. I am 0-4. I think about how I've spent the 4th of July in the past. Some of the most recent ones were far worse than I could have imagined. Now that I'm single, the best I can hope for is that holidays won't be as lonely and depressing as I think they will be. This one is about what I expected. (Unless Federer wins tomorrow. Then it will all be worthwhile.)

My tendency is to beat myself up for my single status. I must deserve it because of all the terrible relationship decisions I've made. Or maybe I'm just unlucky. Or maybe at some point in the future, I'll look back and realize that this period of solitude was also a blessing in disguise. I'm not completely convinced of this, but I'm trying to be hopeful.

These are the flowers from the wedding. It has nothing to do with blessings, but I think it's a cool picture.

Joy and Pain

I finally saw The Fault in Our Stars the other day. I thought that the movie was true to the book but wasn't long enough to include all the scenes that I loved. But I guess no one else would be interested in a 10 hour movie.

One of the things they left out was the discussion of whether we need to experience pain in order to know joy. In the book Hazel repeatedly says she doesn't believe this: "the existence of broccoli in no way affects the taste of chocolate." I thought that this was such a compelling argument that for awhile I forgot all of the research I've read that supports the joy-pain connection.

Hazel worries about how her death will hurt the people who love her. She is afraid that her parents won't have a life after she dies. She pushes Augustus away because she doesn't want to be a grenade. But Augustus cannot be dissuaded: "you don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world, but you do have some say in who hurts you."

This whole joy and pain thing is actually why I have so much trouble with endings. I look forward to having the summer off but by the 2nd day of summer I start obsessing about how my vacation is running out. I suffer from existential anxiety about death and aging. Even coming to the end of books like this one is difficult because I don't want to have to say good-bye to characters like Hazel and Augustus.

When I read the book I didn't fully appreciate Hazel's obsession with knowing what happens to the characters at the end of "An Imperial Affliction," which ends in mid-sentence because the narrator dies of cancer. But after watching the movie, I understand. Hazel wants reassurance that life will go on for her parents after she dies.

I've always thought that life was kind of cruel in this way. My heart may be broken but the world doesn't seem to care. Life goes on, despite my pain. It's kind of insulting, really.

But now I think it's a good thing. Life isn't like a book or a movie that begins with joy but ends with pain--and wisdom. Life is more like a series of stories, where we have more joy--and pain--ahead of us. More people to love. More summers to look forward to.  More books to read. So I'm looking forward to the next installment.

I think this doodle looks like lightning bugs.

Why I Have a Superhero Complex

When I was a kid I remember going to K-Mart with my dad, trying to get him to buy me a toy, as usual. We passed by the jewelry section, and he said he needed to buy something first. He had promised one of his patients that if she lived he would buy her some jewelry. He said that he didn't expect her to live, but since she did, he wanted to keep his promise.

I never forgot this incident because it impressed upon me what a good doctor my dad was. I could imagine him talking to this patient as he made rounds at the hospital. I could see him greet her with his unmistakable laugh, reassuring her that she was going to get better. All of his patients loved him. I wouldn't be surprised if she got better just for him.

My dad was equally dedicated to his family.  During his periods of depression, the thing that plagued him the most was his fear that he had not spent enough time with us because of work. I was shocked when I heard this. My dad attended every tennis match, awards ceremony, and piano recital we were in. Even now, although we all live in different cities, we try to get together for birthdays and holidays because being together as a family has always been a priority. He has his faults, but failing to spend time with us is definitely not one of them.

Above all else, the reason my dad was a dedicated doctor and father is because this is how he has chosen to serve God. I must admit, it bothered me to hear this when I was a kid. Kind of like when the flight attendant tells parents to put their oxygen mask on before helping their children. As a child, I didn't want my dad to love God more than he loved me. But as an adult, I appreciate how admirable it is to live your life with that level of commitment. 

One of the reasons why I berate myself when I'm not able to function is because depression never stopped my dad from performing his duties. Once he confessed to me how bad things were for him when he was depressed. How it would take him forever to dictate his notes because his cognitive abilities were so compromised. How he would obsess about forgetting some detail and would drive back to the hospital. How there were times when he wanted to give up. But he didn't. He still went to work every day, came home every night, and made us pray together as a family before we went to bed.

People give me a hard time because I want to save the world. But with a dad like mine, how can I expect anything less of myself? It is a high standard to try to live up to, but if I have to struggle with something, there are worse things than having a superhero for a father.

Escape in the Moment

Back by popular demand, here is another post by my brother, Romeo Barongan, in honor of Father's Day.

ESCAPE IN THE MOMENT:

A Father’s Day Reflection

I have always dreaded change. Even as a child, my happiest moments were plagued by the knowledge that the more time I spent in the moment, the closer I had come to its end. Lately, the dread of watching my free time evaporate each night with the dawning of a new day, a new shift, & set of new obligations has returned. To offset the gloominess, I have been going to the beach every morning before preparing for the day for no more than 20 minutes. At first, I just did it because I was told that I needed more sunlight & I knew I at least had to go through the motions of feeling better; but truthfully, I didn’t expect any results. But then, after just a few minutes of staring at the peaceful water of the bay with the sun in my face & the sea breeze blanketing me from the summer heat, something happened. I felt peace. All the apprehensions that had kept me up the night before disappeared for just a moment in a place where sand met sea & sea met sky. When I left, it no longer bothered me that my moment of peace was so brief & that obligations still loomed before me; I had a sudden appreciation for the concept of balance.

My morning visits to the beach brought to mind one of my favorite myths from Greek mythology---the story of Icarus & Daedalus. Daedalus is a brilliant Greek inventor who, among other things, creates the Labyrinth that houses the Minotaur of Crete. Icarus is Daedalus’s young adult son. Somehow or another, Daedalus & his son manage to cross Crete’s King Minos. In order to escape punishment, Daedalus crafts wings made of bird feathers & held together with wax. His plan is to escape the island kingdom of King Minos through the air. He teaches his son to fly.

Daedalus, being older & more experienced, warns his son not to fly too close to the water for fear of the moisture loosening the wax that holds the wings together. It would be equally important not to fly too high for fear of the sun’s heat melting the wax that holds the wings in place. The father warns the son to strike a balance somewhere in the middle. Sadly, Icarus becomes too intoxicated with the majesty of flight & soars too close to the sun. Its powerful rays melt the wax, the wings crumble apart, & the young man plummets to the sea. The son fails to heed the father’s lesson of moderation & balance.

While this myth has a sad ending, I think it summarizes the dynamic of fatherhood well. Our fathers push us to reach our potential---they teach us to fly. We, as sons, benefit from their experience & advice. We are given opportunities that we would have been hard-pressed to come by on our own. And finally, we are given guidelines on how to best manage the opportunities we are given. We are taught to strike a balance.

Today, I invite my Father to enjoy his own perfect moment of peace & satisfaction. This day, while only a single day on the calendar, embodies innumerable days collected over the years wherein my Dad crafted two pairs of wings out of feathers & waxed & taught me to fly….Not too high as to touch the sun, & not too low as to dip into the waves, but in a place of balance & equilibrium. Hopefully, I can do a better job of heeding my own father’s advice than Icarus of the myth heeded the advice of his own. 

When I’m tempted to ignore my own responsibilities for a day, I’ll remember my Father’s clock-work commitment to his own profession. Before I mourn the end of a free moment, I’ll remember my father’s example of striving for a balanced life that accommodates both time for recreation & time for focused productivity. On this Father’s Day, I encourage my Dad to live in his own moment of serenity & satisfaction similar to the place I found the day I saw the sand meet the sea & the sea meet the sky. Happy Father’s Day.

Beginnings and Endings

I don't do well with endings. 

Yesterday, as I began my 2 day drive back home, I started feeling anxious for no reason--until I remembered that I always feel anxious at the end of a trip. I was so relaxed during my vacation that I forgot how stressful my life was. Even tennis, which I love more than anything, feels like a job that I have to get used to again. The emails, texts, and calls about team registrations, lineup changes, and board meetings began before I made it home.

I always obsess over the passage of time at the end of a trip. How quickly it seems to go. The things I fear about getting older and watching other people get older. The more I enjoy myself, the stronger this fear is.

The next time I see my niece, she won't be 7 anymore. I asked her to stop getting older when she turned 5, but she didn't listen. Of course, I enjoy her just as much now as I did then, but there is something sad about the parts of her that are left behind every time I see her. Interests that are no longer cool. I don't really know how to put this feeling into words, although I'm sure there are some sentimental parents out there who know what I'm talking about.

I'm the same way with books that I love. I dread coming to the end of them because then I will have to say good-bye to this world and these characters whom I've grown fond of. Sure, you can read the book again, but it will never be like the first time, when you didn't know what to expect.

I used to obsess so much about having to say good-bye that I couldn't enjoy the time I had left with the person. Then, after they were gone, I would cut off my feelings for them so that I would not have to mourn their absence. Not on purpose, of course. In fact, it made me feel like some cold-hearted person. I think that's why I'm so bad about keeping in touch. 

Today I had the realization that, while I was sad about the end of my vacation and the drive home, I also had a lot to look forward to. The beginning of summer. The start of new tennis leagues. More road trips--including one to see my niece again at the end of summer. In fact, I will be with her on her birthday, when she turns 8.

Perhaps instead of thinking of time as being linear, with clearly demarcated beginnings and endings, I can think of it as cyclical, like the seasons. That way, beginnings and endings are right next to each other. And while I may not be able to go back to a specific point in time again, whenever the cycle repeats itself, I can pay homage to that memory, and add another one to go with it.

And I can blog about it, which always seems to help.

Vacation

I'm in the car with my brother and his family, on the way to Florida for vacation. We've been on the road for 9 hours, and we still have 4 more torturous hours to go. My niece almost had a breakdown in the restaurant when her dad told her how much longer it was going to be, and I have to admit, I had to restrain myself from throwing a temper tantrum, too.

But when I think back to when we were kids, I really have nothing to complain about. The four of us are seated comfortably in an SUV that seats 7 people with a DVD player, multiple tablets and cell phones, hot spots, satellite radio, and knitting projects to keep us entertained. My friends are texting, emailing, and calling with tennis updates so that I'm not out of the loop. Everyone can listen to or watch whatever they want without bothering anyone else. No sharing required. Nothing like the forced captivity of what I faced as a kid when my family went on vacation.

Back then they didn't have SUVs that seated 7 people. Instead, 7 of us traveled in a sedan that sat 4 people. How, you ask? Luckily, Filipinos are small. Still, we had to be resourceful. My youngest brother would be on the floor at my mom's feet on the passenger side in the front. My overweight grandmother, 2 brothers, and I would all be scrunched up in the back seat. All of us couldn't sit back at the same time, so one of us 3 kids had to rotate sitting forward on the edge of the seat every hour or so. On trips that sometimes lasted 10-12 hours. I don't know how we did it without killing each other.

And instead of having individual electronic devices that allowed everyone to enjoy their preferred music or movie, we listened to whatever my dad wanted to listen to.  For awhile it was this one cassette that came with his car and featured an assortment of the kind of instrumental songs you would hear on "The Lawrence Welk Show." But I also remember listening to hits like "Rhinestone Cowboy," "Honey," and "You Needed Me" several hundred times. Ask any of my brothers the lyrics to these songs and they can sing them to you word for word.

But even back then, we were better off than the families that traveled out west in covered wagons. All they could do to entertain themselves was talk and sing to each other for months. But maybe they didn't have a lot of down time since they had to try to stay alive and all. I read once that families were so worried about making it before winter that they wouldn't even stop the wagon when one of the kids fell out. Which kind of traumatized me. Maybe that's the intimidation strategy they used to keep kids quiet back then. "Don't make me come back there and throw you out of the wagon!"

My brother and I were just telling Sadie about what it was like for us back when we were kids to keep her from whining every 30 minutes about not being there yet. I'm sure we just sound like adults sounded to us when we were kids, with their tales of how hard life was before all the modern conveniences that kids have today.

Still, she did start watching another DVD so that she didn't have to listen to us anymore. So that's something.

Strength

In honor of Mental Health Awareness Month and Mother's Day, I am featuring a guest blogger, my youngest brother Romeo Barongan. He has been featured in several posts, including Hard Core Fan, The Best Valentine's Day Gift, and Let it Go. This post is an example of how good things can come from depression--like wisdom, gratitude, love, and strength.

Strength is not about how I look on the outside; but about what I’m made of on the inside. It’s not about how much weight I can lift; but about the burdens I’m able to bear….what I’m willing to endure when the cause is just. After a life of trying to keep up with the Big Boys in the gym, I’ve learned that strength isn’t about the body but the soul. In honor of Mother’s Day, I wish to acknowledge my own Mom for helping me realize the definition of true strength. While I have been striving to acquire strength of body, my Mom has consistently demonstrated strength of character.

I feel the need to create some context for the journey about which I will relay shortly. My parents are both successful professionals. They reared three over-achieving children. And then I came along to round our family of six. I’m not selling myself short or looking for pity; I’m no failure. But growing up as the youngest child in a household so rift with talent created a seemingly impossible path to follow. To worsen matters, people outside the family often chided me for my privileged upbringing. They would disregard my success with statements like, “Anyone could do that if their parents had the money yours do.” They disparaged me for my work ethic in the classroom & relative inexperience in blue collar affairs. “Spoiled rich boy should learn to do real man’s work & get his hands dirty every once in a while.” I wanted to prove that I was a “real man.” I had to show the world that I wasn’t the sheltered doctor’s son that they accused me of being. I would force the world to see that I was indeed strong.

I hit the gym hard. I tried to be more “blue collar” without the benefit of knowing exactly what being blue collar actually meant. It was an unusually painful separation when I finally moved out of my parent’s house to strike it out on my own. We’re such a close family with traditional Eastern culture values; I think my parent’s perceived it as a mild insult when their then 25-yr-old youngest son decided to leave their house. But I was driven by the need to establish the obligatory self-sufficiency that comes with adulthood. I had to prove not only to the world but to myself that I wasn’t the helpless youngest son of a privileged family. I had to prove I was normal; that I was “strong.”

The older I’ve gotten, the more I appreciate how amazing my parents are. Dealing with the often overwhelming constant bombardment or adult responsibilities is enough to suffocate me on most days. My career barely involves a fraction of the level of pressure & high stakes that characterized my parent’s careers—and yet, they were able to succeed & still have the time to make me feel like I was the center of their universe. All this year, I’ve been struggling with a life crisis that I tried to keep to myself & resolve on my own. I didn’t want to worry my poor Mother who has more than enough on her plate. I just had to “cowboy-up” & go it alone. But I recently broke down & shared my struggle with her. It’s ironic: I spent most of my 20’s trying to establish my independence in an effort to uphold my obligations as an adult. Now in my late 30’s, I realize that no matter how much I “grow up”, I’ll never outgrow a parent’s love. And I’ll never be too old to realize how much I love & need my parent’s in my life.

I used to think that I was strong after a good workout in the gym or after standing up to a bully twice my size. But then I see my Mom at 70-yrs-old adapt to the computerized healthcare industry to order to extend her 40-year career as a doctor. I see her remain active in the Church & community on her off days. I see her remain the dutiful wife to my Father. And I benefit from her seemingly never-ending support in my own life. I was looking at myself in the mirror after a solid workout this morning when I began to think that strength is too great a quality to be measured in a single act; & certainly too immense to assess through anything we can see in a mirror. With my reflection staring back at me, I realized that I had been strong on this day; but there were far more days when I hadn’t been. With Mom, there’s never an off day. Her love knows no limits. Her commitment to those she loves never wavers. Today, I want to thank her for helping me realize where true strength lies—otherwise, I could have spent my whole life looking strength in all the wrong places instead of summoning it from my own heart.  Even on my best day, I’m not half as strong as my Mom is every day. But I am making progress. For example, I used to be afraid of telling the people in my life how important they were to me----afraid of sounding sappy or weak. But now, all I’m afraid of is failing to be sincere. I love you, Mom. Thanks for everything. And Happy Mother’s Day to you & all the Mothers out there. Oh, & if you haven’t already done so; please don’t be afraid to let your own mom what she means to you. Thanks for reading.

Self-Compassion

My compassion reserves are running low. In my last relationship I took the words of Jesus and Buddha literally about how we should be able to love everyone. It was practically a 3 year exercise in compassion. But by the end I wondered if perhaps I had misunderstood what they meant about loving others. It was a lot of work to have to channel Buddha and Christ just to tolerate being in his presence. I feel like I'm experiencing a backlash now. All those feelings I tried to deny are coming out with a vengeance. I guess I was supposed to have compassion for myself, too.

I'm not very good at self-compassion. Every time I try, the Inner Critic berates me for whining about my problems when I have a good life. I don't know what pain is. I'm not living in a war-torn country. My life hasn't been devastated by natural disasters or school shootings. All of the people I love are still alive. Who am I to complain? 

But surely I must have the right to honor my feelings. My suffering must count, too, if God cares about all of us. So I'm going to write about what's upsetting me, without apologizing for it or justifying it or willing myself to be positive. 

This week I will be moving closer to divorce. Filing forms. Getting documents notarized. More tears. More snot. You would think there would be a limit to how much it's possible to cry over something. That 4 years would be more than enough time. I used to pray to God--plead, even--to tell me what I could do that would allow both of us to be happy. Leaving seemed like it would just make us both miserable. And it has. And I don't see an end in sight for me, at least. I'm trying not to blame God or myself. But in this moment, my faith in a happy future is wavering and I feel like I deserve the pain.

I have 2 family members who are currently on the opposite ends of the bipolar spectrum. My brother is trying so hard but still feels terrible.  It hurts me that he's hurting. My dad is manic. Mania feels great for the person experiencing it, but it's hell for the rest of us. But what power do I have to make him see?  If he were my client, I could make him see our psychiatrist, get him on meds. But as a daughter, I am practically useless.

I'm afraid to answer the phone when my parents call. Which makes me feel horribly guilty, because I know their time on earth is limited and I will regret not talking to them more when they're gone. But the call is almost always about something bad. Something I'm expected to fix. Or something I don't want to do. At minimum, I'm supposed to be a receptacle for the stress, but I can't take it. It's too much. I'm not able to function afterwards.  

So I have to be strategic about when I call or when I answer. It has to be a time when it will be OK if I fall apart. But since it's hard to choose something where there's a good chance you'll fall apart, I often forget to call altogether. Which makes me feel even guiltier and reactivates the vicious cycle. I wish it could be easier. I wish there were some way I could be a good daughter but also protect myself. 

It takes a lot of work to maintain my health. Since I have GERD, allergies, and exercise-induced asthma, I have to take shots, nasal sprays, pills, steroid inhalers, rescue inhalers. I'm not supposed to have coffee and chocolate. I can't eat or drink 3 hours before exercise or bed time. If I drink too much during a match, I'll even throw up water. It's frustrating to have to worry about throwing up every time I play. Or brush my teeth, even. But giving up dental hygiene and tennis are not options.

My mental health is always hanging in the balance. It's work to maintain my sleep cycle because of my night owlness. I can't miss any of my drugs. I can't miss Ativan for even one night. I meditate, pray, journal, exercise, and all of the other self-care strategies. But despite my best efforts, I can never make it to the end of the term without burning out before I cross the finish line. I can't handle the stress of my life. I can't get out of bed right now. It makes me feel weak. Inadequate. Unable to do the basic tasks of life.

Just got a call from my lawyer friend that my paperwork looks good to go, so I guess I'll be filing for divorce this week for sure. If you believe in God, feel free to say a prayer for me. If you don't, send positive vibes my way.

2014 Blog for Mental Health Project

“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2014 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”  
A Canvas of the Minds

Sometimes we make the most important decisions in our lives without consciously knowing why we made them at the time.

I knew that I wanted to become a psychologist since I was in high school. At the time I wasn't fully aware of being depressed in the clinical sense. Being anxious was so much a part of my personality that I didn't think I had an anxiety disorder. And I definitely wasn't aware of any mental illness in my family. I had no idea at the time that depression, bipolar disorder, and anxiety would impact every aspect of my life--in both positive and negative ways.

It's probably not surprising that I have been negatively affected by mental illness. But as I write this post, I realize that there have been positive things about it, too. I have learned the most important lessons in life through suffering and loss.

Even as a therapist, when I heard clients make comments about how they had a bad week, it didn't fully register how horrible that week was for them. In part because clients don't elaborate unless you ask them to. Unless they are certain that you really want to know. And because they are embarrassed about it. Ashamed, even. But after going through my worst depression 5 years ago, I have much more compassion when clients make these offhanded comments.

I admit, during that period there were times when suicide would cross my mind. But there were two things that kept me from seriously entertaining it. One is that my dad would be devastated, and I feared he would never recover if I went through with it. 

The other reason is that if I took my own life, it would undermine everything I ever said to my clients about how pain passes. That one day when they look back they will realize how strong they were at the time. That they will learn lessons from their suffering that it takes some people a lifetime to learn. How can you believe anything your therapist said if she committed suicide? That would be the ultimate betrayal.

So I spent months willing myself to get better.  I went back to therapy, started meds again, meditated and prayed, and forced myself to play tennis and spend time with friends. And I did get better. And everything I said about realizing my strength, becoming more compassionate, and acquiring wisdom were all true. I would have never chosen depression, but we usually don't choose the experiences that teach us the most about life.

People often ask me how I can listen to client's problems all day long. In all honesty, I can't imagine what else I would do for a living. It feels more like psychology chose me.  And when I hear a client's story, I always have hope that together we can change the plot for the better. After all, I always root for the underdog. I am the eternal optimist. And I never back down from a challenge.

There was a time when I would never have told this story about my struggles with depression and anxiety to my students or clients. Or even friends and family. But now I want to share it with the world, because every act of courage benefits someone else. My blog is proof of that.

Memory

I love the movie "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." I love the idea that even if you take the memories away, the love between two people remains. And I like the message that we must experience pain in order to experience joy. But lately I've been wishing I could erase the painful memories from the past 10 years.

Let me first say that I am thankful for my memory, lest I be struck down with dementia for being ungrateful. It helps in my job because clients expect you to remember everything they've told you from the first session on. And when you see 30+ clients a week, that's a lot of stuff to remember.

The most painful memories help me to have more compassion for other people's suffering. When I was depressed, I could not conceive of any possible value that could come from my pain. But now that my brother is depressed, I am better able to help him because I know what he's going through. You're not afraid to sit with other people's pain once you know firsthand how lonely it is.

My memory also helps me capture the intensity of my feelings when I write about my experiences, which hopefully makes my blog better. I am guessing that most writers have good memories and intense feelings. But sometimes it can be a tough combination. That's probably why writers are so neurotic.

Lately there have been some memories that I wish I could forget. Or at least remember without feeling like it's happening all over again. It's almost like having PTSD, reliving these hurtful experiences every time they pop up.

Yesterday I remembered how my first husband told me while we were separating that I have a heart of gold. He said it was the happiest day of his life on our wedding day and the saddest day of his life when we signed the divorce papers. How can you feel that way about someone and still choose to leave them? What good does it do to have a heart of gold if it doesn't help you make a relationship work? In a way I am thankful that he was loving through the entire process, but sometimes I wish I didn't remember how I felt at all.

The letting go process in my second marriage has been just as painful. It hurts just as much now as it did 4 years ago. It still makes me cry. Every step we take away from each other renews my sadness. When will this grief subside? That whole one year estimation is a bunch of crap. I wish I could just forget the past 4 years--all the pain and all the stupid things I did to try to ease the pain that just made things worse.

The only memories I would miss from the past 4 years are the first trip when my mixed doubles team went to districts, getting Federer's autograph at the Cincy tournament, and UVA's basketball season this year. Which makes me seem like some superficial sports fanatic, but it's true. In my defense, part of what made these experiences memorable is that I shared them with my friends and family. I'm sure there were other positive memories worth holding on to during that period of time, but I can't think of any at the moment. Right now, all I remember is the pain.

The only good thing about this second divorce is that it helps me understand how you can love someone and still let them go, even when it breaks your heart. I'm not angry at my first husband any more for leaving. I understand why he did it. It doesn't alleviate the pain of either loss to realize this, but I have a better appreciation for how complex love and marriage are. That's something.

Today I'm not able to do the things I try to focus on in my blog--practice self-forgiveness, self-acceptance, and self-compassion. But maybe tomorrow I'll feel differently.

Let it Go

I love Disney movies. And Disney's latest, Frozen, is one of my favorites, not only because the music is awesome, but also because it is a story about self-acceptance and love between two sisters.

Elsa is the heir to the throne in the kingdom of Arendale. She has spent her life locked in her room, afraid of her power to create ice and snow, because she accidentally injured her sister Anna when they were children. At her coronation, Elsa's powers are revealed when she sets off an eternal winter. When she sings the theme song, she is exhilarated that she no longer has to hide her secret. She creates her own palace of ice and snow on an isolated mountain top.

Although Elsa is free from her secret, she still doesn't want to let her sister into her life. And ironically, in her effort to protect her sister, she accidentally freezes Anna's heart, which almost kills her. But even then, she still tries to push Anna away, for fear that her powers will do even more damage.

It is not until the end of the movie, when Anna sacrifices her life to save her sister, that Elsa understands that surrendering to love is the answer to controlling her power. She is then able to unfreeze the kingdom and open the doors to the palace.

Tonight my brother called me because he has been depressed and struggling to make it to work. For the first time I shared with him how I had gone through the same thing 5 years ago in an effort to convince him to get on meds and to reassure him that this is not a sign of weakness. He was surprised that I had suffered as he had and that he had not known about it. But it wasn't his fault, because I didn't tell any of my brothers about it.

Although I had been on and off meds for several years, this episode forced me to accept that they would have to be a permanent part of my life. As humbling as this was to acknowledge, it was also freeing. But even after I felt better, I still remained in my kingdom of isolation, afraid to let people know.

Writing this blog is the first time I have been completely honest about how dark my depression was. And perhaps sharing my story will save someone else. But in this moment, the most important thing to me is that it saves my brother's life.

We all have the power to create barriers to keep our loved ones away from the darkness inside us. Yet the real answer is to let go and to bring that darkness into the light.

Loyalty

When it comes to sports, I am loyal to a fault.

In a previous post, I talked about the delusional level of optimism that my brothers and I must channel at times to continue to cheer for UVA football. My brother emailed me recently to ask if I wanted to renew our season tickets--which I did. Even though we only won 2 whole games last season.

I captain several tennis leagues every year. And every year, I invite all of the players from the previous season back to the team unless they've done something I consider egregious--like not show up for a match. Or not respond to my emails. Or cause drama on or off the court. I can tolerate a player with a losing record, but I won't tolerate a person who disrespects me or other people.

There are many captains who have the opposite recruiting strategy: they will tolerate a strong but less likeable player but get rid of a nice person who is a weak player.  Because the point of forming a team is to win, after all. I get that. And I've had winning teams. But I'll admit, I sometimes choose loyalty over winning.

I've had friends leave my team and play for other captains because of this. I can't really fault them for wanting to be on a winning team. But I am grateful for the friends who continue to play for me, because it makes our team feel more like a family. In fact, the tennis family that I featured in a previous post are all long-standing members of my mixed doubles team.

This team happens to be my winnningest team, too.  So loyalty does pay off sometimes.

This year, for the first time in 38 years, UVA won the ACC tournament in basketball. And for the first time ever, we were both the regular season and tournament champions. And we did it without any superstar athletes.  Without anyone noticing, really. Because when you win with defense, it's not flashy.  So we didn't get as much press as some of the high profile teams in our conference.

I was there when they won the tournament, and what impressed me the most about them--other than how awesome they are--is how humble they are. No one sticking their faces in the camera talking smack about how they proved their haters wrong. Not even any "we're number one" stuff. No ego at all. Just a joyful celebration of their accomplishment as a team. As a basketball family.

It takes faith at every level to be loyal to a losing team. In the post-game interview, Tony Bennett thanked God for getting his team through the low times. Bennett had faith that a team without a single McDonald's All-American player could accomplish great things. The players had faith that defense and unselfish play could win championships. And UVA fans had faith that someday, our basketball team could return to the glory days of the Ralph Sampson era.

So this post is dedicated to the 2014 ACC regular season and tournament champs. See you in Texas at the Final Four!

God's Will

It feels incomplete to talk about blame and free will without also talking about God's will.  This one is the scariest of the 3 to write about, but I'm committed to being honest, so I'm making myself do it.

When I was in high school, my best friend's father died of a heart attack in his early 40's.  During the funeral, his best friend broke down crying while giving the eulogy.  My friend's mom calmly took his place, saying that she believed her husband's death was God's will so she was at peace with it. 

That really bothered me.  I was glad that it gave her comfort, but I could not fathom how God could want someone to die.  If deaths are God's will, how can it be a sin to commit suicide?  Or murder, for that matter.  Or acts of terrorism.  All of these deaths would just be a part of God's plan; these people were simply fulfilling their roles.  In fact, sin wouldn't even be possible.

There is someone in our tennis community who is reaching the end of her battle with cancer.  Although I did not know her well, I was struck by how positive and kind she was when I met her last year.  She was in the midst of chemo at the time, and she was my opponent on the court.  And she kicked my ass.  Which was both impressive and upsetting, given my competitive nature.

I have been praying for her and her family, but I struggle with what to ask God for if death is, in fact, part of God's plan for her.  I know some people don't believe in God for this reason.  Or if God exists, they don't want to worship a God who would allow people to suffer.  I wouldn't go that far.  It is clear from the life of Christ and the teachings of Buddha, and probably most religions, that no one is immune to suffering. 

I accept that, but it's still hard to tolerate.  I try to imagine what it would be like to be her or her loved ones, but I can't.  My brain won't let me go there.  It's too painful.  Too much to bear.  I can't envision surviving a loss like that, even though I know that somehow I would if I had to. 

I do my usual prayer.  Because we're allowed to ask, even if we don't always get what we want.  God, if at all possible, please let her have a miraculous recovery.  And then I say a more realistic prayer.  Please minimize their suffering to the extent possible.  Please  surround them with love, to mitigate the pain. 

I am no theologian, but based on the story of Adam and Eve, one thing is for certain: God wants us to have free will.  We, too, have the power to say no.  We can choose not to follow God's plan.  We can choose not to love God, or not to love at all. 

In the midst of tragedies, the people involved always say that they are humbled by the outpouring of love and support from people they don't even know.  That it does mitigate the pain.  So I will continue to pray for this member of the tennis community and her family.  If love can ease their pain, then I will choose love.

 

The Best Valentine's Day Gift

I've gotten a lot better at this being alone thing.  But the one thing I have dreaded is today, Valentine's Day.  The day that singles people everywhere are told that they suck.  It's the first time in a long time that I have no one to celebrate it with.

Despite all of my declarations about how I was no longer going to subject myself to the media's brainwashing after the Aqua-Fresh toothpaste incident, I still want to celebrate Valentine's Day.  Yes, its a made-up holiday, but so what.  It's an excuse to eat chocolate, go to a nice restaurant, give and receive gifts.  It's a chance to celebrate, and I'll take any excuse I can get to celebrate.

But I've been trying to put this disappointment in perspective.  When I was married, both husbands forgot Valentine's Day one year, and that really sucked.  So it's not like being in a relationship guarantees that you'll have a good Valentine's Day.  To be honest, most of them haven't even been that memorable.

In fact, the gifts I remember the most are the ones from my dad.  When I was younger he always bought a heart-shaped box of chocolates for my mom and me.  I had the smaller box, of course.  And last year he gave me this beautiful necklace with a gold heart pendant that says "For my daughter" on one side and "You are my pride and joy" on the other side.  What guy can compete with that?

And the best card I've ever gotten was from my baby brother, Romeo.  I was 16 at the time, and I was talking to a friend on the phone, lamenting the fact that I wasn’t going to get anything for Valentine's Day—not even a card.

Then for some reason I was talking about my fears of death and getting old, which I told you about in a previous blog.  Romeo was playing on the living room floor, seemingly oblivious to my conversation.  But when he heard me talk about getting old, he stopped playing and said that he was afraid of getting old, too.  He was 9 at the time, so maybe the fear of aging runs in my family.

A few minutes later, Romeo came running down the hall, telling me that he made a card for me.  I had forgotten how quickly you can make a card when you’re a kid.  It was made with blue construction paper and a red crayon.  There were some hearts and a Happy Valentine’s Day on the front.  And inside he wrote that I didn't need to worry about getting old and that he loved me. Or something to that effect.  I wasn't able to read it very clearly, what with the tears and all.

After that I understood why parents prefer the cards that their kids spend 5 minutes making over the cards that their kids spend 5 minutes buying at Hallmark.  I have received many Valentine’s Day cards since then, and that one is by far my favorite.

Maybe it's good that I was alone on Valentine's Day this year.  My solitude has given me the opportunity to realize that I've never been alone on Valentine's Day.  I've always been loved and always will be loved by my family.   And there's no better gift than that, really.

Friendship, Part 2

Warriors in Training

When I was in grad school, I didn't have many visitors because it was a long drive and there was not a lot to do in the middle of Ohio.  So I saw my family and friends infrequently, and every time I said good-bye I felt this overwhelming sadness--and not just because I wouldn't see them for a long time.  I was also sad because when I was with them, I was completely myself, and I rarely felt free to be myself. 

Part of the problem was that the feeling of being different followed me well into my adult years.  I wasn't like the other grad students.  I watched reruns of The Flintstones and Gillian's Island rather than keeping up with what Koresh was doing in Waco.   I wasn't spending 70-80 hours a week on grad school stuff.  I didn't listen to the right music, didn't hang out at the cool coffee places. 

I moved around a lot during that time, too.  While I was with my first husband, we moved almost every year because he was never happy where we were--which turned out to be more about him than our location.  Still, I didn't mind the excuse to not get too close to anyone.

When I finally moved back to Virginia and became a part of the tennis community here, I was a little freaked out.  There was no way I could avoid being a part of the gossip, what with my failed marriages and all.  Plus, I only dated tennis players, so everyone knew who they were.  I had no place to hide; giving up tennis was not an option.  I had to let people know what I was really like.

Of all the gifts that tennis has given me, my tennis family is the best one of all.  These are the only other people who I can be myself around without obsessing afterwards about what I said or did.  They have seen me throw up on the court.  They've been there when I've gotten kicked out of restaurants for being too loud.  They don't judge me for always being hungry and constantly having to pee.  They don't expect me to make anything for potluck dinners because they know I can't cook.  (But I do bring the Karaoke and board games.)  They even indulge my grandiosity by calling me the Queen.

Often the feedback I get about my blog is about how honest I am.  In an I wouldn't do it, but good for you! kind of way.  I'm tired of hiding.  I spent the first half of my life trying to be like everyone else.  I want to spend the second half being myself.